


the midnight parts inside your heart

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Comfort, First Time, M/M, Omega Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sam goes through his first heat, and Dean’s the only one who can help.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 148





	the midnight parts inside your heart

“Sammy.”

“Don’t,” Sam says, turning away.

Sam is shivering under the cold water. Goosebumps prickle along every inch of skin that’s started to take on an unhealthy bluish tinge. His teeth chatter so loud that Dean can hear it from the doorway.

He ignores Sam, crossing the room to shut off the tap. He yanks Sam’s towel off the rack and frowns. It’s already damp, well on its way to soaked-through with all the showers Sam’s already taken today. He tosses it on the ground and grabs his own towel instead.

“Don’t,” Sam says again, cringing into the tile.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Dean says, tossing the towel over Sam’s shoulders. “Just wanna help you. Let me help.”

Sam stiffens as soon as Dean comes near but relaxes at the first touch of the towel on his skin. He sighs deeply, sniffing at it. He calms down enough for Dean to rub the towel over his shoulders, down his back, drying him off as best he can. Sam all but melts into him.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Dean says. “What were you doing in here?”

Sam hides his face in Dean’s chest, muttering something into the fabric of his shirt.

“Can’t hear you, Sammy. Try again.”

“I was all wet,” Sam says, voice pitched low, embarrassment coloring it all over.

“Shower’s not gonna help with that,” Dean says, mouth running before his brain can catch up.

When it hits him, it all clicks together at once. How weird and secretive Sam’s been lately, the pissy behavior he’d chalked up to Sam being a teenager with hormones and shit. The faint, dizzying sweetness he’s been smelling as an undercurrent since he walked into the room, growing stronger the longer they stand here dripping on the tile floor. Sam’s cheeks stained apple-red, his fingers pinching tight where they’re twisted in the back of Dean’s shirt.

_ “Oh.  _ Shit, Sam. I, uh. I— I can go get Dad?” It comes out as a question, strangled and wide-eyed. “He’ll understand, Sammy. It’s biology, that’s all. Natural, right?”

Sam shakes his head. His grip just grows tighter, if that’s possible, until Dean reaches back to unlatch his fingers himself.

“Gonna rip my shirt,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it.

“Don’t get Dad,” Sam says, voice barely more than a whisper.

Dean hesitates, half a mind to do it anyway. He doesn’t know how to handle this. He’s never gone through a heat himself and doesn’t know much about it. All the girls he’s been with have been on suppressants, and it’s not like he ever got enough schooling to have to sit through a sex ed class. Killing things is really more his area.

But then Sam looks up at him, all big, brown trusting eyes, and Dean’s breath is punched straight out of him in a resigned sigh. “Okay. Okay, okay, I won’t tell Dad.”

Sam sighs, squeezing him tight before relaxing, and that’s about when Dean realizes that he’s holding his naked brother. His naked omega brother who’s smelling better than sex and nuzzling into his chest in a way that’s  _ doing _ things to him, lighting him up in all the worst ways, in shades of sickbadwrong.

Dean swallows, throat clicking audibly in the quiet room.

“I’m gonna go,” he tries. He hates that it comes off like a question, hates the uncertainty in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’ll just leave you to it. Do you, ah, do you need anything?”

Sam clutches him tighter. He looks as surprised as Dean does when he catches Dean’s eye (can’t rightly call it looking  _ up _ anymore—Sam’s as tall as he is now; so young and he’ll only get taller, and fuck if Dean isn’t dreading the day his little brother can tower over him. He bets Sam’ll be a little shit about it too.) 

“Stay,” Sam says.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dean says, already trying to pry Sam’s freakishly long octopus arms off him.

“Please, Dean.”

It’s the voice that does it. That voice all sweet and low, sounding like every time Sam’s woken up from bad dreams, every time Dean’s been the only thing that could make the bad guys go away. The eyes don’t help, trusting and pleading and boring straight into Dean’s soul, sending all the blood in his body rushing to parts down south.

“Okay,” Dean says. He flexes his hands on Sam’s biceps, sucking in a breath at the way it makes Sam’s eyelids flutter. He does it again, holding Sam tight and watching him shiver.

He doesn’t know what to do. Oh, he knows how to do it, generally speaking, but he doesn’t know how to do  _ this. _ His heart is rabbiting in his chest, and his breath is too loud, ragged and echoing off the walls, and Dad is right down the hall. He can hear the dull drone of the tv from the other room, and the door isn’t even locked. Every inch of this is a bad idea.

He knows he’s going to do it anyway.

“What do you—” he starts to ask; of course he asks, because it’s Sam and it’s Sam’s first time, and Dean doesn’t want to fuck him up any more than this is already going to.

He’s cut off by a press of lips against his mouth, sweet and chaste and a little bit stale. Sam tastes like flat Coke, like Cheetos and spit. He smells like little brother, like the smell of pillows and sheets in every room they’ve ever lived in, rank with a hint of sweat—it’s a smell Dean could identify blind and in the dark.

He groans. Sam kisses clumsy, all eager tongue and clacking teeth, like he’s trying to drink Dean down, or climb inside.

“Easy,” Dean says, pulling back. He pulls away a little, just enough so he can lick his lips and get his bearings.

Sam makes a disgruntled sound, petulant and impatient, and Dean slides a hand up the back of his neck, gets a grip in his hair and gives it a solid tug. It’s worth it to see the way Sam’s mouth goes slack, to hear the ragged groan that drags its way out of his mouth and shoots straight to Dean’s dick.

“Fuck,” he says, staring at his little brother’s kiss-bitten lips. They’re swollen and a little bit shiny with spit, and Dean wants to lick them again, so he does.

He fits them back together, licking his way into Sam’s mouth with all the finesse he’s learned in the backseat of cars. Sam whimpers and clings to him. Dean sucks on his tongue, and he all but goes boneless.

“Dean,” Sam says, and fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna kill him.

“I’ve got you.” He murmurs it into the side of Sam’s neck, licking and nipping at his skin, not hard enough to leave marks, but fuck, Sam is squirming in his hands, and Dean wants to pin him. Wants to nail him against the wall and make him scream. He’s gentle as anything though, sucking at Sam’s collarbone, saying everything and nothing, losing track of his own goddamn mouth to the tune of, “I’ve got you, Sammy, relax. Gonna take care of you and make you feel good.”

_ “Dean.” _

Fuck.

He backs Sam up against the wall and gets a leg between his thighs. Sam knows what to do, grinding himself against Dean’s thigh, leaving a wet trail of slick behind and probably ruining these pants, but fuck it. Dean kisses him again, gets a hand between them and wraps it around Sam’s dick.

Sam chokes on a garbled groan, arching up into Dean’s hands. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck.”

“Shh,” Dean hushes, pushing his free hand over Sam’s mouth. “Gotta be quiet, alright?”

Sam nods. Then he licks Dean’s hand, and the wet-slick feel of a tongue against his palm— _ Sam’s _ tongue—turns his bones straight to jelly.

“Fuck.”

There’s another few moments of sweet, fevered panting, breathing into each other’s mouths while they rut against each other. There’s a moment where Sam goes rigid all over. He pulses in Dean’s hand, shooting come hot and sticky over his fingers. His eyes slam shut and a whimper falls out of his mouth, and Dean is struck dumb thinking  _ I know what my kid brother’s O-face looks like. _

None of this is as horrifying as it should be. It feels like falling, feels like flying.

Sam sags against him, forehead leaning against Dean’s shoulder, and he’s suddenly aware of how damp they both are. He eases them both down to the ground, hiding a wince at the way the seam of his pants digs into his erection.

Sam makes a small grumble of protest when Dean pulls away, but he doesn’t go far, just far enough to snag the discarded towel off the bathroom floor so he can clean them both up. Sam’s sticky with sweat, come, and slick. He probably needs another shower, but Dean does his best. He balls the towel up and flings it into the overflowing hamper and helps Sam into his clothes anyway. His heart clenches at the sight of Sam on wobbling knees, sweet and sex-flushed and smiling up at him like there’s not a damn thing wrong in the world.

A brief cloud passes over his face as he looks at Dean’s crotch, the material still pulling uncomfortably tight, and Dean feels his own cheeks heat for no reason. He fights the sudden urge to cover himself. He’d just jacked his little brother off; surely this should be no big.

“What about you?” Sam asks, chewing on his lip and nodding at Dean’s problem.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

Sam looks like he’s about to argue, but then he yawns so wide it cracks his jaw, and even he can’t say anything when Dean hauls himself up and says, “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

He waits while Dean pokes his head into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear and lets Dean lead him by the hand, soft and pliant in a way he hasn’t been for years. Dean wonders why it makes his heart ache so much.

He gets Sam situated in bed, wrapped up in blankets up to his chin, warm and safe. He tucks him in, and that’s something else they haven’t done in years. It’s strange territory here, a dizzying mix of firsts and always. Dean feels like he’s standing on top of a cliff.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

His heart thuds in his chest. He waits for the other shoe to drop, for Sam to tell him they shouldn’t have done that, that they shouldn’t do it again. He wonders if Sam will tell Dad.

No, he decides before Sam says anything. He wouldn’t do that.

“Thanks,” Sam says, smiling at him sleepily, already starting to drift off.

Dean perches on the edge of the bed. He ruffles his hand through Sammy’s hair and kisses him on the forehead.

He’s already snoring by the time Dean shuts the door behind him, quiet as a mouse in church.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from “Eloise” by Des Ark.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


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